“Ah, so you are magic… I wonder…”
The hair prickled on the back of his neck. A shiver crept up from the base of his spine. Someone was in the room with him. Someone was creeping up on him from behind. Moving slowly, Raistlin set down the helm. In the same motion, he took hold of his staff, and twisting to his feet, turned around.
Eyes, pale and cold, surrounded by shadow, gazed out of the darkness. The eyes had no substance, no head, no body. The eyes were not the eyes of the living. Raistlin recognized in that fell gaze the hatred and pain of a soul constrained to dwell in the Abyss, a prisoner of the God of Death, unable to find rest or relief from the gnawing torment of its terrible existence. The eyes drifted nearer, abyssal darkness stirring about it, trailing after it. Raistlin raised his staff, holding it in front of him. The staff was his only protection. He was too weak to cast another spell, even if he could think of any spell that would work against this dread specter. He considered shouting for help, but he feared that this might cause the wraith to attack. Above all, he had to keep the specter from touching him, for the touch of death would drain warmth, drain strength, and drain away his life.
The wraith drifted nearer, and suddenly the staff’s light flared in a blaze of dazzling white, nearly blinding Raistlin, who was forced to shield his eyes with his hand. The wraith halted. A voice spoke. The voice was dry as bone and soft as ash, and it came from an unseen mouth.
“The Master bids me give you this message, Raistlin Majere. You have found what you seek.” Raistlin was so astonished he nearly dropped the staff. His hand shook, and the light wavered. The wraith moved closer, and Raistlin tightened his grip, thrusting out the staff. The light shone steadily, and the wraith retreated.
“I don’t… understand.” Raistlin’s mouth was dry. He had to try twice to speak and then the words came out in a croak.
“Nor will you. Nor are you meant to. Not for a long time. Know that you are in the Master’s care.”
The spectral eyes closed. The darkness dissipated. Raistlin’s arm began to shake uncontrollably and he was forced to lower the staff. He was completely unnerved, and when a voice spoke behind him, he nearly crawled out of his skin.
The voice was Sturm’s. “Who were you talking to?” The knight’s tone was ugly and suspicious.
“I heard you talking to someone.”
“I was talking to myself,” said Raistlin. He thrust the helm into the sack, hoping the knight had not caught sight of it. He asked sharply, “What of those voices my brother heard? Where is Caramon?”
Sturm was not going to be distracted. His eye had caught sight of the gleaming metal.
“What is that you hold?” he demanded. “Why are you trying to hide it? Let me see it!” Raistlin sighed. “I am not trying to hide anything. I found an ancient dwarven helm inside this sack. I know little about armor, but it looks to be of some value. You can judge for yourself.” He handed over the sack. “Where is Caramon?”
“Entertaining guests,” said Sturm.
He opened the sack, pulled out the helm, and held it to the light. He breathed a soft sigh.
“Beautiful workmanship. I’ve never seen the like.” He glowered at Raistlin. “Of ‘some’ value! This is worth a king’s ransom. Such a helm would be worn only by one of royal blood, a prince or perhaps the king himself.”
“That would explain it…” Raistlin murmured. He added off-handedly, “You should handle it carefully. I think it might be enchanted.”
He was thinking of the wraith’s words. You have found what you seek. What had he come here seeking? Raistlin hardly knew. He had told Tanis he was searching for the key to the Thorbardin. Was that true? Or had it been an excuse? Or did the truth lie somewhere in between…
“Entertaining guests?” Raistlin repeated, the knight’s strange remark having suddenly penetrated the fog of his thought. “What do you mean? He’s not in trouble.”
“That depends on what you mean by trouble,” Sturm replied, and he gave a low chuckle. Concerned, Raistlin started to go to his twin’s aid, only to find Caramon standing in the doorway. His brother’s face was flushed red.
“Hey, Raist,” he said, with a sheepish grin, “look who’s here.” Tika appeared at Caramon’s side. She gave Raistlin a smile that quickly evaporated beneath the mage’s cold stare.
He opened his mouth but was interrupted by Tasslehoff bounding into the room, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement.
“Hullo, Raistlin! We came to rescue you, but I guess you don’t need rescuing. Caramon thought we were draconians and nearly skewered us. Wow, is that a dragon? Is it dead? Poor thing! Can I touch it?”
Raistlin fixed his brother with a piercing glare.
“Caramon,” he said in frozen tones, “we need to talk.”
Chapter 13
A Royal Guest. The Way Out. A Dread Discovery.
Sturm ran his hands over the helm, marveling at the crafts-manship. He was vaguely aware of the tension in the room, of Raistlin berating his brother in low and angry tones, of Caramon’s feet shuffling and his aggrieved replies that it wasn’t his fault, of Tika grabbing Tasslehoff by the collar and yanking him out of the room, muttering something about searching for the way out of this horrible place. Sturm was conscious of all that was going on, but he paid no attention to any of it. He could not take his eyes and his thoughts from the helm.
His fingertips carefully brushed the grime off the gemstones so that they gleamed more brightly. One in particular caught his eye—a ruby as large a child’s fist, set in the center of the helm. Sturm pictured what the helm would look like polished, shining. He was tempted, suddenly, to try it on.
He did not know where this notion came from. He would not, of course, have traded his own helm that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s before him for all the steel coins in Krynn, and this helm would not fit him anyway. It had been made for a dwarf and was therefore too large for a human. His head would rattle around inside like a pea in a walnut shell, yet Sturm wanted to put it on. Perhaps he wanted to see what it felt like to wear a king’s ransom, perhaps he wanted to judge the quality of the craftsmanship, or perhaps the helm was speaking to him, urging him to place it over his head, draw it down over his long fair hair that was already starting to gray, though he was not more than twenty-nine years old.
He took off his father’s helm and rested it on floor at his feet. Holding the helm, admiring it, Sturm seemed to recall Raistlin saying something to the effect that the helm was magical. The knight discounted that notion. No true warrior such as this dwarven warrior must have been would have ever allowed a wizard anywhere near his armor. Raistlin was just trying to ward Sturm off. Raistlin wanted the helm for himself.
Sturm put the helm over his head. To his amazement and gratification, it fit him as if it had been made for him and him alone.
“So, Raist, what kind of dragon do you think that is?” Caramon asked, with a desperate attempt to change the subject he knew was coming. “It’s a strange color. Maybe it’s a mute dragon.”
“You mean mutant dragon, you dolt,” Raistlin said coldly. “The beast was perfectly capable of speech, and right at the moment I don’t give a damn what it was!” He drew in a seething breath.
“I think we’ll go look for a way out, Caramon,” said Tika, speaking the first desperate thought that came into her mind. “C’mon, Tas. Let’s go find an exit.” She collared the kender.
“But we know how to get out!” Tas argued. “The same way we got in!”
“We’re going to find a different way,” said Tika grimly, and she hauled him out of the room. Raistlin fixed Caramon with a withering stare. Caramon wilted beneath it, seeming to shrivel to half his size.